


Prelude to a Becoming

by choir_of_one



Series: JonElias Week 2020 [5]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: But Jon Goes Along With It, Dream-like states, Drugged Jon, Jonelias Week (The Magnus Archives), M/M, Multi, Non-Consensual...Dancing?, Pre-Canon, The Entities All Want a Taste
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:48:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26160637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/choir_of_one/pseuds/choir_of_one
Summary: Elias knows that Jonathan Sims will be a perfect Archivist. He wants the others to see this too. Consider this a rehearsal dinner of sorts.In which Jon is the guest of honor, and his dance card is quite full.
Relationships: Elias Bouchard | Jonah Magnus/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Everyone
Series: JonElias Week 2020 [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1896295
Comments: 7
Kudos: 70
Collections: Jonelias Week 2020





	Prelude to a Becoming

**Author's Note:**

> For Day Five: AU/ Altered Mental States. This takes place in a sort-of adjacent world to TMA, where you can gather a bunch of avatars in the room without mass homicide.

“Doesn’t it seem fancier this year?”

Sasha rolled her eyes in response to Tim’s question and finished off her cocktail, an overly-sweet punch. “It’s the same as it always is, Tim. Just a bunch of academics taking advantage of an open bar. You’ve got vodka-goggles on.”

“And I don’t ever wanna take ‘em off,” Tim threw his arms around Sasha’s shoulders, drink sloshing everywhere. 

The Institute's holiday party was usually a rather tepid fare, and this year’s was shaping up to be no different. Jon didn’t always go, usually citing family gatherings and other plans as an issue, but this year was different. Not in the occasion, no, but the importance. 

The only problem is he hadn’t yet found out _why_. 

The Director of the Institute, Elias Bouchard, had approached him on his way out of the library, well-past normal operating hours. Jon was comfortable enough with the man not to be particularly afraid at being caught out late; Elias was more interested in what kept him, what nightmare he was neck-deep in researching. After the usual inquiries, Elias had changed the topic with a hand to his shoulder. He froze.

“I do hope you’ll be joining us for the holiday party this Friday?” Elias looked down at him with a smile. Jon felt his heart skip a beat. He’d had no plans to go- the weather was supposed to be miserable, and he didn’t fancy stumbling home in slush and ice.

“O-Oh, well- I’m unfortunately busy on that day, I’m sorry to say. I don’t think I’ll be able to make it out.” Jon hoped this didn’t make Elias think any less of him. Surely he would understand.

“Nonsense,” the man replied easily. “The networking opportunities will be incredibly hard to miss this year. I’ve invited some special guests, and I know they’ll be anxious to meet you. I’ll see you there, hm?”

Jon hesitated- why would Elias want anyone to meet _him?_ Sure, he’d been a researcher for quite some time, but he wasn’t exactly high on the payroll. He was in charge of no department, and Sasha had made _quite_ sure that he no longer trained anyone after the incident with Monica last year. “I-I really don’t-”

“I insist,” the pressure on Jon’s arm increased. “I look forward to seeing you. Now, have a good night.” Elias was so sure he’d come, even without his response. The confidence of the man always befuddled him.

Well, he _was_ correct. And here Jon was, trapped between Sasha and Tim during what was, by all accounts, a perfectly run-of-the-mill party. No one approached him and he hadn’t even seen Elias at any portion of the night. It was rather disappointing. 

There was one thing, though. The party usually took place offsite, at some nice event hall within a few blocks of the Institute. But this time, they’d used a smaller room onsite. It made it a bit of a tight squeeze- their banquet hall could only hold so many, after all. However, Jon felt himself distracted by the door to the private collection, a beautiful space reserved for donors and only the most exclusive of events. He’d seen caterers and bartenders filter into it, not to return. He even thought he saw a few classical musicians, the shape of their cases indicating violins and cellos. But no band played at these events; it was usually a cheap DJ playing poorly remixed hits. Was there some other event that they were not privy to?

He’d get his answers soon enough.

Towards the end, as the staff filtered out, Tim and Sasha attempted to corral him to the bar down the street.

“C’mon, it’ll be fun,” Tim whined, hanging off of Sasha’s shoulder. The two were definitely well past drunk. “Let loose for once, Sims!”

He opened his mouth to reject the offer when Sasha’s eyes went wide at something behind him. That something was the Head of the Institute, Elias Bouchard himself. Elegantly dressed, perfectly coiffed, annoying handsome Mr. Bouchard who had insisted he come finally made his appearance.

“I trust you enjoyed this evening?” This was directed at Tim and Sasha, and they both stuttered their affirmations. “Very good. I’ll need to borrow your friend here, if you don’t mind.”

“He’s all yours,” Tim slurred with a wink and Jon felt his face growing red in embarrassment. _God, the people I choose to associate with._ Elias gave a brief chuckle and a nod, taking Jon’s arm without so much as a goodbye to the others. Jon followed with a stumble and a brief glance back at his friends, who were currently engaged in a battle of who could make the most vulgar gesture in his direction.

“Glad to see you could make it,” Jon snarked, emboldened by the liquor coursing through his system. They were slipping through the hallways, a nod to a staff member here and there and more than a few questioning glances. _Probably wondering why a little rat researcher like me is being shepherded through the Institute by the big boss himself._ “Thought you wanted to ‘introduce me’ to people, for whatever reason.”

“And I still do,” Elias conceded, not sparing him a glance as they made it to the door of his office in record time. “But I figured you could do with a bit of a rest, first. Conversation, no matter how dull, can really take it out of you, can’t it?” Jon had to agree, though he couldn’t tell if Elias was making a broad statement or a comment on Jon’s own inclinations to solitude. It was rather considerate of him. 

“I suppose,” he murmured back. Elias held open the door, ushering him inside and gesturing to the expensive, antique chaise lounge. “Please, sit.”

He did, and found it surprisingly comfortable, if awkward. It was clearly designed for repose and not Jon’s stock-straight position in the middle of it. Elias turned to a bar cart at the right of his desk, a new addition to the office. _Just for tonight, I guess._ Jon fidgeted awkwardly as he watched him pour an amber liquid from a decanter into two heavy crystal glasses. He turned with a smile and handed one over; it was clear he was not asking, but rather commanding. Elias stood in front of him, smiling patiently, and Jon knew he wouldn’t move until he took his first sip. 

It was _glorious_. Bourbon, smooth and intoxicating as it slipped down his throat. A strange acrid aftertaste, but Jon chalked that up to it’s age. He was no connoisseur of fine beverages and was used to house liquors. _Is this what money tastes like_ ?

Elias, still silent, made his way across the room and sat behind his desk. The only sound in the room was the ticking of his clock. The man didn’t drink at all from his glass, Jon noted. It made him nervous and he took another sip in order to alleviate the feeling. The distance between them made him feel even more uneasy; why wasn’t he seated at the chair across from the desk? Still, he didn’t move.

“I’m sure you noticed the preparations being made tonight,” Elias finally spoke, resting comfortable in his chair. “Our private library has a certain atmosphere, I must say. That’s where tonight’s main event will commence.”

“Main event? It’s rather late though, isn’t it?” Jon replied, feeling the weight of the night and the alcohol in his system. The room was beginning to blur; had he really drank that much? And yet here he was, finishing his drink within a matter of minutes as if compelled. 

Elias laughed softly and gave him a fond look. “Oh, Jon. Don’t all of the best things happen in the dark?”

“I’m not sure what you mean.” He was whispering now. The room began to spin, and Jon found himself tilting dangerously in his seat.

“You look unwell, dear,” Jon paid no mind to the affection in his voice, too consumed with trying to stay conscious. Suddenly Elias was by his side, pushing him gently into the couch and imploring him to lay down. “Why don’t you have a rest?”

“I think I will,” The words were heavy on his tongue, and the last thing he remembered before he surrendered to the darkness was the mischievous glint in Elias's cold green eyes.

* * *

The world was different when he awoke.

The office was bathed in dim candle light and the ticking of the clock was softer, almost soothing. _When did he do this? I never saw any candles._ He looked around the room; no Elias to be found. His vision seemed almost hazy, perhaps from the darkness- but it seemed like more than that. Like a sort of twilight, liminal space between waking and dreaming. The deep, sonorous sound of the clock let him know that time had certainly passed. He couldn’t see the numbers, his vision too blurry, but he followed the tones as they rang.

Eleven o’clock. _Dear Lord, how long have I been out?_ He moved to get up; he felt light-headed and weak. And yet his movements were smooth, guided. He wasn’t steady, but he would not fall, either. Even though he stood still, his vision seemed to be moving ever so slowly forward in the direction of the door like a siren’s song beckoning him onward. 

It was then that he heard the whisper, the _call._ It was sweet and low and familiar; where he should’ve been frightened, he instead felt assured. Wanted.

_Your company is expected downstairs. Come now, Child of the Eye._

Who was he to keep them waiting?

And so he made his way down, down, down to the private library. His movements were slow and assured, he glided along the floor as if he were hovering over the ground. The hallways were lit by candlelight, flickering over portraits and paintings that looked to be melting like candle wax from a fire he could not see. He felt warm, pleasant. Like a scene from a Gothic novel he read in his youth in the cover of night. 

He reached the empty banquet hall, pausing in front of the heavy, ornate door that led to the private collection. The emptiness of the room was eerie but the chill it sent down his back was delightful.

And then he was still, for there was strange music.

A waltz but slightly flat in tone. Discordant notes that somehow comprised a symphony all his own. 

_Time to knock_ , the voice called. And so he did, hand forming into a fist and guided by gentle strings to rap against the door. The noise echoed in the silence of the room; the music swelled.

The door opened.

It seemed larger than Jon remembered from his original tour of the institute. Two floors of documents and texts dating back over two hundred years. This too was bathed in dim light, but he could not find its source. It didn’t seem to be coming from anywhere- rather it was born as a reaction to impossibly dark corners and flickering shadows. The heavy oak tables had been cleared to provide a dance floor where the string orchestra played and guests mingled and spoke in low intonations. At his entrance, they turned to him in a slow sort of unison and smiled. 

The Time of the Judgment was nigh.

But were these people, these _things,_ guests? Jon didn’t think so. They felt like intruders, like worshipers at the wrong chapel. But here they were before his altar. They were not welcome, but they were invited all the same. 

The orchestra reached a crescendo. His first partner arrives. A tiny, wizened skeleton of a man with a too-big grin and the sky under his skin. His footsteps thunder in the muted recess of Jon’s mind. 

“May I?” He wasn’t asking. He could feel his Master’s gaze and his hands moved of their own accord. The waltz begins. Jon doesn’t know the steps, but he dances with a languid grace. For a man of his age, Simon was shockingly spry, a wiry strength to his arms as he lead Jon along. 

_“Very good,”_ the man whispers in his ear, breath like ozone. “Elias wasn’t exaggerating. You are quite the natural. Simon Fairchild, at your service.”

“Charmed,” he whispered back with a voice that was not his own but heavier somehow. His mind registered the name vaguely, he knew it was important. 

“Oh none of that now, Archivist,” The man laughed in delight. “I’ll sate that curiosity of yours one day. But not yet.”

“I’m not the Archivist,” he murmured, brow furrowing. What was her name, again? He was supplied with no answer. He found himself rather put out by this. 

“May I cut in?” A lament had begun, and there was only one suitable partner for this. Black skin, white dreadlocks, an impossibly handsome face and a tall, sturdy body. This was Death incarnate, grief in his eyes and stiffness in his movements. His hands were cold as he took Jon’s in his own.

“Oliver Banks,” the notes of his voice an elegiac melody. “I’m so sorry.” The words were sincere and Jon felt a coldness spread throughout his limbs. His movements became mechanical to match the pace of his companion. 

“It’s alright,” Jon knew the words were a lie even as they left his mouth. But he wanted to comfort the man all the same, chase that sadness from his eyes. “Or at least it will be, in the End.”

Oliver smiled and Jon was in love. “You’re not what I expected you to be, y’know?” The song was coming to an end as their movements slowed. “Thank you,” he whispered, smiling back. It was a compliment, after all.

“My turn,” a low growl, a smile with too many teeth. “Julia Montauk. You’ll be hearing from me, I’m sure.” A foxtrot, but vicious and violent and bruising as they rapidly swung across the floor. _Slow, quick, quick._ He might have been in her arms, but she was chasing him all the same. His blood sang in harmony with hers. This was all a part of the game.

And on he was passed, each dance an eternity in and of itself. A searing tango with a woman made of flames. A cutting quickstep full of blonde curls and sharp hands. A stumble through the dark under milky-white unseeing eyes.

A hive offers him a song all her own. He declines. A hulking man of too many parts feeds him from his own plate and eyes his body like a meal devoured.

A lively swing number. Another hand, but a different type of cold. Unyielding, hard flesh, if it were flesh at all. A painted smile. He twirls dizzily and a high pitched laugh stung his ears like needles. 

“Oh I _like_ you, Archivist!” A drop. Jon was falling, and caught. He registered a dull pain in his sides at the movement from this facsimile of a dancer. _I Do Not Know You._ This one was especially dangerous, antithetical to his very being. The eyes on his back become unbearably heavy and he feels possessed, owned and Known and wanted. It helps him continue in this maddening circle.

“I think I’d rather like to _wear_ you, in fact!” The music cuts abruptly. Jon can feel an anger that is not his, but certainly on his behalf. The room fogs.

A soft, distant bolero. A man with sea in his hair and solitude written in ink on his arms has gathered him up with a smile. Jon does not feel the pressure of his embrace. Their movements are slow and he has the feeling he’s being judged and found wanting.

“Scrawny thing, aren’t you?" The voice is playful, empty. “Don’t know what Elias is thinking, really. Gertrude you are _not,_ that’s for sure.” _Gertrude. That is the Archivist. I am not the Archivist._

_Yet._

“But maybe that’s a good thing, hm?” A hand strokes his cheek. Jon does not look up. He has never felt so adrift, so alone. The feeling only intensifies as the man brings him closer to his chest. “Poor dear. Maybe I’ll make a meal of you instead.” Jon is afraid, but it is a gentle fear.

When the fog lifts, he is alone. But not Lonely. The sound of plucking strings follows him as he moves to the door. The dance is finished, he has done his part. One more task lies ahead.

The Mother of Puppets descends from the ceiling, tucking spindly limbs from sight and taking the form of a thin, beautiful woman with black eyes and dark skin. Jon feels himself break from his sleep-like movements, deeply and utterly scarred as he is by this entity. 

She slips forward on almost invisible strings and takes his face in her hands. He wants to run but is paralyzed, arms that aren’t there bolstering his body as it threatens to fall to the floor. He sees his reflection in her impossibly large eyes.   
  


“My gift to you, Elias,” she whispers. She plants a kiss on his forehead, and his mind is filled with cobwebs as he sinks to the floor. She climbs back into the darkness and his arms are grabbed by two strangers with blank faces.

“Delivery for Mr. Bouchard!” one says in a heavy cockney accent. The other laughs. And Jon sleeps.

* * *

Jon comes to on the same lounge, but this time he is encased in someone’s arms, leaning against his chest as fingers play idly with his hair. He knows this man, his Watcher. He does not think he should want his comfort. But it calms him all the same.

“You did wonderfully, Jon,” Elias whispers into his ear, adoration clear in the words. Jon shudders. “We’ll make an Archivist of you yet.”

Jon turns around in his arms tilting his head up to face the eyes of the man who will make him. “Promise?”

An indulgent smile. “Promise.”

Elias’s lips are on his and the vow has been made. No turning back. Only forward.

In three months’ time, Gertrude Robinson will be dead.

And the Archivist will be ready. 

**Author's Note:**

> This was probably my favorite one to write of the weeks' prompts. Hope you enjoyed.


End file.
